Prague
by Daniela Hedz-Berkowitz
Summary: I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,   the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,   I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes- Pablo Neruda.
1. Cheers Darlin'

Overture

-Now- you said the war was over and the blood left your hands, that your fingernails were empty of innocent flesh. You said that the planes were gone and that your return was eminent, that you were coming back from the battle fields with an empty head of blonde hair; you said that the war was over, that you would return clean and blood free, that you would hold my hands without fear.

-Now- you said the shock is gone, but I heard screeches fill your tent at night as your comrade writes, that your nose bleeds over the pillowcases after the horrours left your throat. You said you were fine and returning home, that the war was over and the planes were gone.

I heard the siren's songs ripped the night as I crawled underground away from dust and gravel and tears. A ragged doll with an unrealistic heart. You said you were returning, that the war was over and the planes were gone; but that night I crawled alone as the recent ruins of parliamentary buildings littered over the lidded streets.

They said you were unstable that the horrours of war times soiled your soul, that the cries of the innocent carnage imprinted inside your tympanum and played its demoniac symphony while your eyes were close. Egalitarianism fevers of troubled voices poured ludicrous emotions of eerie apparitions adorning the grounds you walked on. They said you were not making progress and that the fevers increased sporadically, they said you were hallucinating and in a child like manner you spoke french and cried for russet curls. They said you were dreaming of unrealistic proportions, told me you smoked frequently and that your regal face was now marred by the burden of imperious anger and delusion. They told me your bones were angry and fragile, that the blood frequently spat out of your mouth. They attached images of your new persona to the mechanical, impassive letter. Images they put on my hands personally; they said sorry and looked down to my shaking fingers, eyes glued to the golden band around my finger; they said nothing else, not a word and parted.

-Now- I had images to attach to the howl of desperation emanating from each one of the scotch-soaked letter you sent each week, in an almost ceremonial, yet mundane way. Images that I cradled at night and sought pleasure from the incandescent fire behind your azure pupils, as desperate fingers lingered closed to the gushing obsession, but never enough to douse the thirst for you. Blue fire once gentle now chaotic, beautifully engulfed on an electric, eclectic frenzy as if painted by Germanic Ottonian painters, eyes consumed by the arduous errors of a failed caused you and I once gave our lives for.

Hunched in raggedy clothes aloofly giving away meager traces of blemished skin stretching over curved bones, accommodating deplorably the pressure of animalistic vehemence. But to me you were beautiful in your own manic way; consumed by plerotic ideals of fulfillment. Beautiful in the never ending madness infesting your intestines. You said the war was over and the planes were gone; but here I found myself rendering my last feelings into blanched pieces of parchment in the confines of our room, lopsidedly dreaming of sun faded memories and corridors of open doors, and aghast faces. Yet here I am drawing silently, mercilessly into an ocean of photographs marked by the standard blonde silvery hair and the darkness proverbial abyss hanging right around us; images depicting the eminent conflict, the contradictory belief of fighting for your god. Enthralled by the way your hand connected with mine and the cocoon our bodies melted into in that November night; basking in the ethereal fervour of your taste upon my jaw, I laid still imagining the susurration of your words along my spine encased in the throbbing sensation of being yours.

-Now- you said that you were fine, that your return was closely linked to my support, that you needed me as much as I needed you, that the air was poisoned by the powder and dried gore. You said that the battlefield held you captive in the overwhelming fragility of the totalitarian regime we fought to overthrow. You scribbled poems along the margins and promised that you shock was slowly receding, that the finality was crawling, approaching and tearing its way into your being. You wrote of beauty and the prosperous future over the eastern oceans under the warmer sun, you wrote of beauty as you described the last memory of our climax, of the way my back arched under your hands and we turned one next to the ocean.

I wrote you of my undisclosed desires and the lurking necessity of having you near, of the chain tied around my neck and ankles, of platonic amours and jousting affairs. I wrote of my thoughts on the war and the qualms I had regarding it. I combined ideas of pleasure and pain for your entertainment, reminiscences of masochistic flavours as they clouded my sight and brought release, I drew the waves of calamity as it swept through my body and I reached the pinnacle with your name on my lips, curling my limbs on lascivious contours as the scent of your skin suddenly attacked my responses and galvanized my over roused senses. Ephemeral release of an unseen foundation. Falling enrapture to the summer at Toulouse and the excavations around the German Rhineland, bewitched by the sounds of the flocking winds carrying your melodious laugh. I needed you. Needed you to be strong and keep the mirages away, needed you to be my thriving flower throbbing with angelical beauty of Hellenistic features, I just needed you, bruised, mad, tortured by the massacre and daze of the falling bombs. I needed my flower to be back.

You said the war was over and the planes were gone, you said the English summer throve on beauty and incandescent sparrows reminded you of my frantic curls. Overzealous phone calls multiplying into tears and shouts of terror, vivid phone calls culminating in the pinnacle of my ecstasy and the quivering of my limbs, my downfall with your name resonating in the air. My first and last everything, the one and only cliché draped in the childhood shroud of early carnal experiences, the feeling of falling unrestricted into the bliss of passion and pure joy. Closing my eyes to your shadow of your face and waking to your silver locks clouding my sight. My perfect passé romance carved out of a French folklore tale.

You said for me to wait, that your return was approaching and that the days were deteriorating. You said you needed me and I needed you. I belong to you.


	2. Elephant

Author Note: Sorry if this comes a bit late, but I really didn't know how to address this. The story came to me while a boring lecture of atoms and balanced equations during AP. Chem., I'm still debating where to take this and how to proceed with it, I am not necessarily doing this for reviews or appraisal, I'm doing for the mere reason of my own amusement and the possibility that someone would enjoy it as I do. This initial chapters can be quite confusing when revealing much about the main characters interactions and such; if there are any questions you can ask me directly thorugh here or wait and see if by the nest chapter they might be answered. Thanks to the people that took the time to read this, it is greatly appreciated.

* * *

><p>Chapter One<p>

_And when you think you've sinned_  
><em>Do you fall upon your knees?<em>  
><em>And do you sit within your picture?<em>  
><em>Do you still forget the breeze?<em>

_Elephant - Damien Rice._

The sleepy town of Dinard, isolated by the autumn floods, rests drowsily in Brittany, hollow rocks and naked trunks adorned Saint-Énogat beach in the early hours of the eerie morning. The contrasting colours of post-primavera were resonating on the atmosphere and your arms were softly draped over my waist anchoring me to the cold crystal sand, overlooking the pristine waters of the English Chanel.

Subconsciously painting the shadows of the morning colouring your cheeks to a rosier touch, the soft purr of your breathing behind my ear, the tangible contour of your anatomy pressed against mine. Overzealous lips found their way to your jaw, the crook of your neck became the shelter of my brow. Incessant nips to the hollow of your throat as the subtle shadow of the rising sun, sketching silhouettes behind our standing bodies. Your nose against mine and the ethereal picture of pure adoration was tinted on the idyllic beach landscape. Took a breath and your lips were descending on mine, the ambrosia of your being gradually satisfying me, melting me, becoming one. The passion was grounded, escalating into nothingness, just the hint of pressure upon my chest accompanied by the ever-pounding burn of my heart graces were the memento mori of the passing reality of that fleeting moment.

The willow trees adorned the Arcadian, painteresque landscape, muses frolicking on the gravel road and the heat of your hand grasping mine blended into one as the day debilitated in the azure reflection of the sky. My French beauty, bombarded by the polemical contradiction of opposing regions; ignoring the shape of waters that separated our homes was now a anamorphic reflection in the foreground as we made our way towards the slightly crooked Breton's houses.

-Then- My flower, rosy cheeks, and halting breathing. My flower evanescent in the diminuendo pleasures of beauty; beauty of lasting magnitudes in my surreal heart. My flowers, my Galatea of unprecedentedly loveliness for the fragility of my unreal heart. Hazily traveling back to blue summer's evening where I saw her for the first time.

The Rance River hollowed the margins of Dinard. Fourteen years of childhood memories traced around the summers conspiring the contours of this river. Summertides at the river filled my skin golden, my hair disobedient and mad with disserted knots. My sleeves were short and my face sported a constellation of sun faded freckles. The pier brushed with people, my parents maneuvering the boat to the dock; the image was almost perfect, as if the small couples of enamored faces were delicately coloured upon the ocean canvas.

Escapes and liaisons with the rocks gave my vernal body strength to slide down the rocky cliffs of humble heights as the cave opened up to my vision and with the cave my flower was presented to me in an splendour of a Venetian golden sienna. My flower was sitting there atop the humid sand of the grotto's façade, sleeping drawing intricate patterns on the smooth expanse of her exposed smooth belly. I was blinded, blinded by the patronizing beauty of this being; my eyes drank the silvery texture of pale hair, slowly committing to memory the traces of a virginal innocence still present in your body. My flower, my French flower as I saw you for the first time.

Enchanted, bewitched, by your thrall of impervious beauty, my body hummed with softness as it dragged itself down the rocks, my clothes flagged with the musk of sultry plants and remains of spring moss, my face dirtied by Brittany's pre-autumn airs. My body dragged down the ores, dragged along the murky cavern to the entrance, to the golden rays involving my flower. A mere marionette tailored by a visceral desire to own my flower. You looked up to me, looked up to the sight of my eyes boring into yours, aloof and warm, a sundry of contradictions in the lightest shade of blue. Your body rose up to me, that delightful height difference you gained over my slightly developing figure; your body rose up to me and the infinitesimal carnal darkness flashed in your eyes as they ran down my anatomy. Seventeen you were, you told me later, seventeen and ludicrously passionate about a cause my young mind had never heard of. You suddenly held my hand while the enthusiasm racked your flesh and the volume of your voice was heard echoing in crescendo waves resonating on the hollow cave.

My flower was mad, mad since the first day I saw you, my flower was delusional and soberly concrete on her ideals. My flower was beautifully mad, enthralling me into her words, trapping my pubertal body into your warm cocoon of goose bumps and orchestrated harmonies. I had no defense, my submission to her charm and Franco sovereignty was eminent and unrestricted. I was engaged in a web of submission, attached to your heart since day one of our turbulent journey, completely sunk the moment your lips caressed mine under the blue light of the French sun and summery winds. There was no running, I was your prey, the wounded lamb aroused to life by the carnal desires of pent frustrations that you ignited aided by rosy lips of mundane nature.

That day I became yours, my puerile body singing, an instrument for you to play. Gasps and quivers wrecked my bones, foundations of desire crippled my stance, naked and submissive in your arms; my flower, a mere stranger of Hellenistic beauty branded my fourteen years old persona with promises of prolific love and ancient prophecies that chained us together. Fourteen years old and I became yours. I fell enamored with the extensive enamel surface of your flesh and the way my body reacted to the foreign and unknown sensations. Tip of my tongue flooded with obscenely vicious words as your hungry fingers ripped greedily at the remains of my innocence. I gave myself to you, my flower, my Fleur.

You said that evening, as my mouth descended into forbidden territories, that you dreamt of me, that a short, juvenile English girl with mad chocolate tresses, that vivid auburn eyes haunted your thoughts bringing pleasures and oblivion to your sleep. You traced constellations on my back and told me stories of platonic hopes in heavily accented honeyed English. I hung on every syllable, devouring the words offered to me, branding them into my mien. The claim slowly sunk in, and I was yours once again, I was fourteen and the laughs of my mother were forgotten in the foreground, I was fourteen and my body vibrated with lust, fourteen and I had found you, my flower.

Dinard's moon enveloping us on hoary refulgent splendour, limbs entwined accompanied with the reddishness of still latent shame, still redundant on my pubescent flesh. You were perfection carved on enamel surfaces, blessed by Pagan's gods, twisted in the hands of time and Venus' eyes, you were perfection with a French arrogance earned through aristocratic years of history; you were my morning and my evening star, perfectly mad, flawlessly mine.

Carnal vicinity, with not eloquent words to express the vernacular meaning of our actions, Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No.2 as the soundtrack of that night was sufficient for our unspoken explorations. No words were spoken among you and I. carnal coalition, modified by the grandeur of flowers, of the delicate petals of your unseen lips as you guided your scène down my leg. Pain derived from the hardships of inexperience graces and my apologies of gaucherie brought laughter you your mouth and warmth to my heart. By the end of our first night, my flower was meager; a radiant glowing overpowering her figure, distilled love from cavities filled with passion that then grew eager for the impulse to mitigate the ache for more. You were mine.


End file.
